The Case of The Overwrought Inspector
by Christine34
Summary: How Lestrade ended up at the doorstep of 221 B after a gruesome night, he will never know. But good thing that he did. I wished for a piece of shameless Lestrade WHUMP. So I made up one of my own. Rating to be on the safe side.
1. Chapter 1

I wished for some shameless Lestrade WHUMP - after surfing aroung here for some time I decided to make up some of my own. Please be gentle - it has been ages since I have written a piece. I am working on the next chapter

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In retrospective Lestrade could not say what directed his footsteps to Bakerstreet 221 B on that Sunday morning. True enough - last night`s events had been as gruesome as cases involving childreen always turned out to be.

When he had been called to a murder in Whitechaple, memories of the other murders over half a decade ago had surfaced. He had been so much younger all this time ago and the investigations had been led by Fred Abberline. From what he had heard and from what little he had seen, Lestrade had considered him lucky not to be too deeply involved in the Ripper`s murders. Older and far more expereciened collegues had at that time resigned from their jobs - some of them having spent nearly their whole professional lifes in the labyrinth of violence, misery and human tragedies in the streets of Whitechaple. And Lestrade himself would never forget the hysteria and alarmism that had spread throughout London with every new murder.

So Lestrade had prepared for the worst when news of a mutiple murder in Whitechaple had reached the Yard early this last evening. The Superindent had almost instantaneously ruled that Lestrade be the one to deal with it. Afterall, Lestrade was nowadays one of the experienced investigators and had proven over the years that he could be trusted with solving difficult cases (albeit sometimes with support from London`s only consulting dective and his Boswell) and with keeping his head clear in addition.

When the Inspector had decended the cab at Cavell Street, the press was already there, hungry for another scandal. The local bobbies were doing their best to keep the horde of reportes and photographes from the scene of crime. But never the less Lestrade knew that the news would make it into the morning papers.

Lestrade had hardly the time to get a first survey of the scene when the coroner arrived. Together they entered the house to find a terrible tableau: two children hung to death, their mother strangled to death and their father with his throat slashed by his own hand. There had been blood literally everywhere. The scent of cooper and human excrements had hung heavy in the air.

The night had been terrible - frankly, Lestrade later found that he could not recall everything that had happened. He remembered the bare facts of course: the crime scene`s examination and the coroner`s preliminary postmortem. He remembered sending two of the rather green looking bobbies to run some errands. All of which resulted in the very distinct conclusion, that the father, after losing his job as a assistant foreman in a match factory, had no longer the means to supply for his family or to meet the doctor`s bills for the treatment of his jaw`s phosphorus necrosis. And rather that seeing his wife selling her body or sending his family to the local alsmhouse, the pater familias had first killed his children and his wife and then judged himself. The Inspector remembered the Commissioner arrving in the dead of night wanting a full report. He rembered the Superindent complimenting him for wrapping the case up so neatly and swiftly, then sending him home. He remembered stepping out in the freezing cold of dawn. The cold air, heavy with snow had cleared his head and brought sharp realisation to his numb mind. Thankfully the bystanders were too busy with the Superindent`s improvised press conference to notice the haggard looking official rounding the next corner where he proceeded to emtpy his stomach.

After this Lestrade remembered walking in the cold, forcing his body to obey his brain`s oders of moving one feet after another. He might have stumbled and even have fallen sometimes. But all he could remember was being deadly cold. He could only guess what brought him to Baker Street and not his own door step - perhaps his subconscious recalled that his own house was empty with his wife and his children being away for a visit to his sister in law.

Over the recent years something akin to friendship devolved between the amateur and the official. No doubt under the Doctor`s steadying influence. Meanwhile Lestrade knew better than to believe the widespreat opinion of Holmes being a brain without a heart. He had seen it countless times over the years after Holmes`s return from the dead. Especially when the amateur was dealing with the Doctor. But could he be really trusted with Lestrades`s shortcommings when dealing with the aftermath of case gone wrong? Lestrade sat down heavily on the stairwells and put his head in his hands. He realised that it was barely half past six in the morning. And while Holmes hardly kept regular hours, Lestrade somehow doubted that the amateur would appreciate being torn from sleep over an already solved case. While he was trying to summon the will to get up und get moving, behind him the door was opened. Lestrade tensed and forced his body upright, facing whoever was at the door.

It was Mrs Hudson, the long suffering landlady. For a short moment Lestrade fought to understand why she knew, he was at the door - he could not recall ringing the bell. Her picking up the newspaper clarified that question. She was far from surprised to see the Inspector - in fact Lestrade has lost the count on how many times he had appeared at her door to consult Holmes or Dr. Watson. More often than not at the oddest of times and sometimes in quite a disputable state. She merely took a look at him and ushered him in. He must have looked worse once he was in the illuminated corridor, for she took hold of his arm and set him on an nearby chair. _Well - that is certainly a first time,_ Lestrade mused.

What ever she said was lost to him. Within the warmth and the safety of the house his senses began to dull again. If he could only stopp shivering. He heard some commotion in the upper rooms. Then someone came rushing down the stairs, taking two or three steps at the time - Sherlock Holmes himself and not the doctor whose limp was more pronounced in cold weather. Lestrade thought abount the upcoming questioning and decided it was better to offer an apology and head home than to relive the night. Wearily he moved to stand and hid his trembling hands in his coat pockets. He musterted all of his strength and met the dectives piercing gaze.

"I am sorry, Mr. Holmes. It is quite early and I should not have distu..." That was how far he came. Something unreadable flashed in the steel grey eyes and crossed Holmes` face. Then he schooled his face`s expression into the collected calmness which the Inspector up to then had believed being reservered for distraught clients.

"Nonsense. You are not disturbing and you will not leave. Why don`t you come upstairs with me? Mrs Hudson will have a tolerable blaze burning in the fireplace by now. And I fancy a hot tea will not come amiss." Holmes exchange a glance with said woman, who came descending the stairs at a much more sensible step than her lodger.

"Of course, Mr Holmes. And perhaps something light to eat?"

Holmes gleefully rubbed his long acid stained fingers. "Capital. Now, Lestrade uptairs with you." Holmes hopped up the stairs, leaving Lestrade to wonder how the devil he should make it up the _hexed seventeen_ stairs. Wearily he grapped the rail and began the ascent. The trip upstairs seemed to last forever and left Lestrade panting, drenched in cold sweat, dizzy and incredible nauseous, when he reached the top landing. His body again betrayed him as he doubled over, dry heaving.

A few steps ahead of him Holmes cursed and hastened back to the Inspector`s side. Lestrade heard him bellowing for the Doctor as he fought for controll over his body. It was in vain. Again and again he retched helplesly. At least there was nothing in his stomach left that could have come up. Tears of exhaustion were running down his face, embarrassing him further. Holmes gripped his shoulders and supported him when he would have fallen flat on his face. Finally the spell ended. His knees gave away and he found himself gently lowered to the floor. Feeling utterly spend, he leaned into Holmes` sinewy body. Grateful for the solid anchor it provided while before his eyes the world was still spinnng. Then there was a second set of hands on him. Lestrade recognized the Doctor`s firm, yet gentle touch as he felt for his pulse and checked him for injuries.

"Lestrade, can you hear me?" It was the Doctor`s sonorous barriton, conveying calmness and at the same time enough acuteness, that Lestrade felt compelled to at least open his eyes. He met Watson`s inquirung gaze. The Doctor smiled. "Delayed shock, I dare say. You look like you had a hell of a night, my dear Inspector. Lie still for a moment and don`t you worry about a thing. Believe me - you are hardly the first to collapse after a trying case." He patted Lestrade`s shoulder and levered himself up, trying not to wince when putting weight on his injured leg. "See if you can move him in few minutes, Holmes. And get him out his wet clothes. I`ll be with you shortly." Then the good doctor was gone.

A few seconds passed in tense silence. Lestrade felt his cheeks burn in high embarrassment and struggled out of the amateur`s grip to get up. He would have betted a month`s salary that Holmes, too, found the whole situation as awkward as hell. But to his surprise Sherlock Holmes tightened his hold. "Giles, for heaven sake, stay put for a moment. Or do you Watson to have both our hides?" Wether it was the amateur`s use of his given name or the reference to the Doctor`s sometimes formidable temper, that kept him in his position, Lestrade could not tell. But slowly he began to feel better. His breathing returned to normal and he felt he could move without ending sick.

Holmes as observant as ever helped him to his feet before he had even began to formulate the question. For a tense moment Giles Lestrade fought for his balance and for mastery over his rollling stomach. Sherlock Holmes said nothing, but his grip remained supportingly strong, clearly conveying that he would not let Lestrade fall. Together they made it into the living room where Lestrade all but collapsed onto the settee.

He recalled the Doctor commenting on his wet clothes and struggled to get the coat off. To his great shame Sherlock Holmes had sorted him out off his drenched coat and suit jacket in the blink of an eye and was assisting him in taking off his shoes and heavy leather gaiders. The dective offered a small and uncertain smile as he helped Lestrade laying back and tucked an afghan around him. His hand found Lestrade`s shoulder and lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary. It was this moment when the Doctor returned balancing a tray. Holmes under the pretence off taking the Inspector`s clothes to Mrs Hudson made himself scarce. With a good natured chuckle Watson set the tray down on the coffee table and poured two cups of tea. "Powdered ginger", he remarked. "It will help settle your stomach. You know the drill - small sips. And do allow your body to rest. There will be time to discuss everything later."


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade lay motionless for a few moments, thankful for the rest. Despite the thick comforter he was still cold and fought to suppress the shuddering. In addition, memories and impressions from last night starting swirling around his mind. The more his body came to rest, the more persistent the sensations became. He could almost smell and taste the coppery smell of blood again. Desperately swallowing against thick saliva Lestrade sat up. Groaning he disposed himself of the blanket. He hoped that staying upright would help with the terrible sickness he felt.

A strong and sure hand gripped his shoulder. Lestrade rather felt than saw Watson sitting down next to him. "Lestrade, I need you to concentrate on my voice. Try to breath with me. In on the count of three. One… two… three. Steady now- hold your breath for a moment. And out. And in. And out..." With practised ease the doctor guided the inspector trough the breathing exercise.

Slowly the nausea ebbed away. Lestrade ran a shaking hand through his hair to find it damp with sweat. It had been ages since he had had a reaction that strong to the horrors of his work. Suddenly he felt sheepish and ridiculous – he was a grown man hardened against the brutal reality of a policeman's work. He wished he had never shown up here. When he said as much, the doctor´s hand connected with the back of his head lightning fast and not to gently. "Balderdash, you are always welcome here. I patched you up a couple of times before – this time is truly not any different."

The doctor rose and handed Lestrade a cup of ginger tea. "I know you don't feel like it. But you should try and drink some tea. Part of why you feel so wretched is due to the fact you are dehydrated."

The Inspector eyed the teacup with deep suspicion. The mere thought of drinking the smallest amount of anything made his gorge rise again. He vehemently shook his head. "It will only come up straight away."

It was exactly this moment Sherlock Holmes re-entered the sitting room. In what seemed one movement the amateur flopped himself unceremoniously in his armchair to have his long legs hanging over one armrest. He waved a languid hand at Lestrade. "You will lose this argument. Better start on that tea – before he starts spoon feeding you. He has done it to me before. I assure you it was beyond humiliating." The doctor gave an exaggerated huff and a good natured bickering ensued between the two of them.

Lestrade held the teacup between his hands, savouring its warmth. Listening to the exchange between the two friends dragged his thoughts away from last night's gruesome events. Tentatively he started sipping on the tea to find it did help his stomach to settle. Lestrade grew tired and closed his eyes. He did not want to sleep for he feared the dead children would haunt his dreams. But perhaps it was safe to just rest his eyes for moment, only for a few seconds. He felt the teacup taken from his limp hands. He forced his eyes open and his body upright – he would not fall asleep and embarrass himself by waking up screaming with a nightmare. Holmes was standing above him, the teacup still in his hands. Their gazes locked. A moment of silent understanding seemed to pass between them. It was broken when Mrs Hudson entered the room.

Lestrade had half expected her to begin serving the breakfast table. But to his surprise she spoke in crisp tones. "Mr. Homes, breakfast will be ready in one hour. I have a bath running for the inspector. Doctor, I laid out some of your clothes for the inspector. His will have to go the laundry. And than he has to rest."

To his surprise Holmes merely nodded and murmured something about setting up the guest bed whereas the doctor smiled affably. "Of course, Mrs Hudson. Thank you very much."

She turned to Lestrade. "And you, young man, get yourself in the bath room. Enjoy the bath. You will feel more like yourself in no time. Just leave your clothes there. I will take care of them." Lestrade found his body obeying before his mind had time to register what was happening.

After he had seen to his needs Lestrade eased himself in the tub and closed his eyes. For the first time since this sinister business had begun he felt no longer cold. The hot water seemed to literally wash away the dirt as well as the emotional pain. The strong scent of the soap overrode the remembered smell from drying blood which had plagued him every single time he had closed his eyes. And without it the intense pictures his subconsciousness would then replayed failed to appear. Later he could not tell how long he stayed in this save haven. At some point he dozed off. When he awoke the water had cooled considerably, prompting him to get out the tub and to face reality once more. The clothes which Mrs Hudson had laid out for him turned out to be pyjamas and a well worn and rather comfortable dressing gown. Resigning to the fact that the resolute landlady would most likely order him to bed like a small schoolboy Giles Lestrade put them on.

Upon entering the sitting room he found Mrs. Hudson preparing the breakfast table, Holmes standing at the window his violin at the ready and Watson in one the armchairs by the fire engrossed in today's paper. As soon as the doctor noticed Lestrade he neatly folded the newspaper. Stuffing it away he rose to meet Lestrade half way through the room. "Excellent. You certainly look better. Feel you up to eating a wee bit or do you want to go to sleep right away?"

Lestrade considered the question and found that the thought of eating did not repeal him as much as beforehand. The three of them took their breakfast in silence. This suited Lestrade just fine. Although he felt more in control over his emotions the happenings of the night still hung heavily on his mind. He doubted that he could have pursued any other topic of conversation. From experience he knew that he would need to discuss the events in order to stash the feelings safely away. But certainly not over breakfast and likely not before he had rested. Sighing he rubbed his forehead. He did need to sleep and with wearing the doctors pyjamas and his own clothes in the laundry he would not be going anywhere. But with the sleep the nightmares would set in inevitably.

Lestrade was not worried about Watson. He had patched up Lestrade more than a few times. Besides in the three years Holmes had been gone, the doctor and the official had formed a friendship on their own and had seen each other through all kind of lows. And perhaps John Watson had been right: this time might not be much different from the dressing of other wounds.

But what about Sherlock Holmes? Today Lestrade had revealed much more vulnerability and had been granted much more kindness from Holmes than he ever had thought possible in both respects. He could feel the detective contemplating him and looked up.

Holmes also had abandoned his food. He seemed to weigh his next words thoroughly. "You must try to sleep, Lestrade." His mouth curved up in half a smile. "Now get over there, before Mrs Hudson gets the chance to shove you." He pointed over to the settee which has been turned into a makeshift bed.

"My goodness, this woman is a force to be reckoned with." Lestrade remarked while he stumble over to the couch. Holmes was right as usual: Lestrade was dead on his feet so to speak. Sleeping was the only sensible option right now as his body's needs outweighed any other concerns.

"You have no idea", came the dry reply. "I would lay odds on her every day of the week." Lestrade chuckled quietly despite himself and pulled back the blankets. As tried to settle him into a comfortable position, Holmes left the breakfast table Lestrade. He wandered by and pickup the violin from where it lay. Tucking it under his chin he tuned it absent-mindedly. His eyes came to rest upon Lestrade. The latter found it difficult to evade the intense gaze. "You will do well to remember that you are safe and among friends here." And that coming from Holmes counted for a lot. Lestrade nodded, closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.


End file.
